Intoxication
by Frodo Baggins of Bag End
Summary: Following the Quest, Frodo's difficulty in adjusting drives him to excessive drinking and overindulgence. Is there hope that he can yet be helped, or is the pain of life after the Ring simply too great?
1. Chapter 1: Trapped

Title: Intoxication

Author: Frodo Baggins of Bag End (FrodoAtBagEnd/FBoBE/"Febobe")

E-mail: febobe at yahoo dot com

Characters: Frodo, Elrond, various others in cameos or secondary roles.

Rating: M for serious angst, alcohol abuse and addiction, painful and vivid PTSD and depressive symptoms as well as memories of violence and possibly some violent behaviour. Follows FrodoHealers standards - no sexual content, no slashiness, no profanity.

Warnings: Serious angst and some graphic medical detail, including vomiting, diarrhea, post-traumatic stress and depressive symptoms, and alcoholism. May be triggering for those easily squicked or for whom alcoholism is an emotionally distressing subject. No profanity or sexual content, slash or het. May include memories of violence or violent behaviour. No character death.

Summary: Following the Quest, Frodo's difficulty in adjusting drives him to excessive drinking and overindulgence. Is there hope that he can yet be helped, or is the pain of life after the Ring simply too great?

Feedback: Reviews are welcome, but (a) no flaming, please – flames will be used to warm Frodo's chilled body, and (b) I do this as a hobby, for pleasure, so before you take me to task about whether something "isn't canon" or "doesn't feel thematic" or how I left out a comma in paragraph 7 or made a typo in paragraph 3, please ask yourself whether that's really helpful. I'm not interested in being a canon purist or perfect – if I were, I wouldn't write this kind of thing; I'd just leave Frodo alone. In short – if you want to tell me you liked it, by all means, tell me, but if you just want to tell me how much better you would write Frodo, then go write your own stories with Frodo. (And if they're Frodo h/c, and suitable, by all means submit them to FrodoHealers. 😉 We could use some activity over there!)

Story Notes: Inspired in part by an RP (roleplay) session I did with Elwen circa 2014. If you haven't checked out her stories, you should - they're wonderful. :) I set up this scenario and threw myself into the angst full force, and she, as usual, rose to the challenge even more admirably than I had anticipated. :) Thanks, Elwen. 3 (You may interpret that as either a heart or a Frodo bottom. See in it what you will, but it's a compliment!)

For permission to reproduce any part of this fanfic, please contact Febobe.

DISCLAIMER: The characters, places, and story of The Lord of the Rings are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and consequently of the Tolkien Estate, with select rights by Tolkien Enterprises. This piece appears purely as fanfiction and is not intended to claim ownership of Tolkien's work in any way. Please e-mail me if you have concerns. Original characters, such as (but not limited to) Lossmeril, are my own work; please do not use my creations in your work. Please respect my original contributions. Furthermore, please do NOT consider any treatments or remedies within this story safe or effective for use: these are included as fictitious hobbit care, not real human medical practice, and while some can indeed be traced to actual therapeutic practices, could be dangerous. Please consult your health care professional before treating yourself or others for any condition or symptom. No slash is intended or implied in this story.

INTOXICATION

Chapter 1: Trapped

Before the Quest, I had never believed that solace could be found in a wine-bottle, nor peace in brandy.

After the Quest, however, it was a different matter entirely. So long as I was kept in bed, and cared for round the clock, I fared well enough - when I had nightmares, there was always someone sitting with me, so I had comfort close at hand, and sometimes Aragorn would have left a little milk and brandy with sugar, or a white wine posset, to help me rest. It always seemed to ease me into dreamless slumber, and so that was, I suppose, how it began.

Things were different once I was deemed well enough to pass the nights in my own room, in a great wing of the citadel where the king lived. I appreciated Aragorn's desire to afford us the honour of our own chambers in his home, but I found it lonely, for I had had Sam to comfort me during the long nights of our later travels, when we had often slept huddled together for warmth and comfort. And earlier, I had had my cousins as well. It had not been uncommon for the four of us to sleep in a little knot, the others shielding me with their bodies from any threat which might approach, and of course there had always been someone, Big Folk or small, standing guard while the rest of us slept. But now I had a hollow hall all to myself, and Sam seemed to be settling in so well, difficult as it was for him to accept such honour, that I could not bear to think of burdening him with my cares. So I bore my nightmares alone, and in silence.

And then the memories came.

They were no more than flashes, momentary assaults on my senses, a feeling that suddenly I was not in Minas Tirith, safe in the citadel, but back in the Black Land, in the tower or the mountain, or wandering lost in the darkness without Sam or water or food or any relief from the horrible Eye. And then it would pass, and I would recognise my surroundings again.

But the only thing that eased my suffering was drink, and plenty of it.

Aragorn had strict instructions for Sam and myself, and all the kitchen staff and servants seemed to know them. Our dietary was limited to simple, plain food in small quantities, albeit at frequent and regular intervals, and only a little wine or brandy in a bedtime posset for a sleeping-aid. After a few failed attempts at wheedling more alcohol and food from servants, I did the only thing I could think of to help myself.

I resorted to stealing.

I would not have had to do it, of course, had I been allowed the wine I deserved. But no one understood, and so rather than rouse Aragorn's suspicions, I pretended at first that it was enough, and then snuck behind the servants' backs, slipping into the wine-cellar and absconding with a bottle of white or red every night, when most of the servants were too occupied or tired to notice. A hobbit's stealth came in handy, and all my long months of hiding and avoiding capture proved useful for something, at least.

But increasingly I had no patience for the feasts (where I could not feast), the crowds (which I could not bear), the public appearances (which distressed me no end). Being there seemed to fill me with dread, almost panic, and so I found that I felt better when I locked myself in my room, turning all visitors away, and hid with a book, something to eat, and plenty of drink. Water, always water, for to be without made my heart pound in my chest and my breath catch short in my throat. And of course the wine, or sometimes a fruit brandy. At night I would accept whatever spirit-laced milk Aragorn sent up for me, lace it liberally with more wine, and drink myself to sleep, taking more wine during the night as needed when nightmares woke me in drenching sweats.

I claimed illness to escape appearances, which was not altogether falsehood, for my stomach seemed to be upset much of the time. I threw up several times every day; sometimes I suffered from diarrhea as well, and my stomach hurt nearly all the time. I drank and ate only when nausea did not entirely stop me, though I found the need for drink to dampen the memories so strong that sometimes I would drink through the nausea, forcing the wine down, even though sometimes it would come right back up. I grew quite adept at washing out blankets and garments in the tub before piling them in a heap for the servants. Perhaps they spoke to Aragorn of it; he expressed his concern for my health many times, and tried to come and see myself when I reported illness. Sam, too, always came to see about me. But I could not bear the thought of facing either of them, and so I shut myself away, hiding as much as possible.

And so it was that I huddled beneath a blanket one afternoon, feeling chilled, as I had most of the time since my Morgul-wound, weary of all the people who insisted I was fine now, and well, and worthy of so much honour. *I would rather have wine than honour*, I thought darkly, refilling my glass between pages of a volume of Gondorian poetry I was reading. I set the bottle down beside my plate - in the after-luncheon commotion, I had managed to make off with a plate of cold roast beef, mashed potatoes with mushrooms and gravy, several strawberries, and three small fruit tarts - one blueberry, one raspberry, and one lemon. I had not felt up to attending the luncheon, and Aragorn had sent up only soup and plain mashed potatoes with a little rice pudding, and food seemed the only thing besides alcohol which helped to fill the hole inside me. I was on my third glass of the day, or perhaps my fourth, but who was counting? It was the only thing to dull the pounding of the Ring still inside my head, the pounding ….

Wait.

That wasn't the Ring's voice.

That was someone pounding at my door - or at least knocking. Perhaps it only felt like pounding.

"Go away!" I called, determined to rid myself quickly of the unwelcome visitor. "I'm resting!"

"If you are unwell, Frodo Baggins, you should allow help to come to you."

I gulped. That was Elrond's voice. I knew he had recently arrived from Rivendell - everyone had seen the arrival of Lady Arwen, her father, and their large party of elves, and of course we had all attended her wedding to Aragorn - but thus far I had managed to avoid him. He had not been able to heal my wound. He had not been able to protect me from the dangers of my journey. Yet part of me recalled fondly the comfort he *had* afforded me, how he had often sought me out when I complained of headaches in Rivendell and retreated to my room. He had always sought me out and offered medicines and herbal compresses to soothe me, or a kind and heedful ear when I simply needed to discuss my tangle of feelings about the journey which lay before me. When I had awoken after my injury, it had been he who, after days and nights of tending me, bathed and fed me, changed the dressings on my wound and the place he had had to cut to reach the fragment of blade, gave me medicines to ease the soreness, the lingering pain. If anyone could help me, it must be he. And yet I could not bring myself to seek him out, looking instead for continued comfort in a bottle.

I could not think of a way to send Elrond, of all people away, so I did the only thing I could think of to do. I rose, dropping my blanket carefully over the wine-bottle, glass, and plate, taking care not to overturn anything. Then I ran to bed with my book, laid the book on the cover beside me, and crawled beneath the blankets, pulling them up over my head.

"Very well," I called. "Come in if you must." Secretly I half hoped that he would. Not even Aragorn or Gandalf paid me much mind these days - true, Aragorn always asked to come see me when I said I was feeling ill, but he never seemed to press the matter. They both seemed so busy rebuilding Gondor.

But I suddenly realised that there would be no hiding the smell of alcohol from Lord Elrond.

What on earth was I to do?

-to be continued-


	2. Chapter 2: Discovered

Title: Intoxication

Author: Frodo Baggins of Bag End (FrodoAtBagEnd/FBoBE/"Febobe")

E-mail: febobe at yahoo dot com

Characters: Frodo, Elrond, various others in cameos or secondary roles.

Rating: M for serious angst, alcohol abuse and addiction, painful and vivid PTSD and depressive symptoms as well as memories of violence and possibly some violent behaviour. Follows FrodoHealers standards - no sexual content, no slashiness, no profanity.

Warnings: Serious angst and some graphic medical detail, including vomiting, diarrhea, post-traumatic stress and depressive symptoms, and alcoholism. May be triggering for those easily squicked or for whom alcoholism is an emotionally distressing subject. No profanity or sexual content, slash or het. May include memories of violence or violent behaviour. No character death.

Summary: Following the Quest, Frodo's difficulty in adjusting drives him to excessive drinking and overindulgence. Is there hope that he can yet be helped, or is the pain of life after the Ring simply too great?

Feedback: Reviews are welcome, but (a) no flaming, please – flames will be used to warm Frodo's chilled body, and (b) I do this as a hobby, for pleasure, so before you take me to task about whether something "isn't canon" or "doesn't feel thematic" or how I left out a comma in paragraph 7 or made a typo in paragraph 3, please ask yourself whether that's really helpful. I'm not interested in being a canon purist or perfect – if I were, I wouldn't write this kind of thing; I'd just leave Frodo alone. In short – if you want to tell me you liked it, by all means, tell me, but if you just want to tell me how much better you would write Frodo, then go write your own stories with Frodo. (And if they're Frodo h/c, and suitable, by all means submit them to FrodoHealers. 😉 We could use some activity over there!)

Story Notes: Inspired in part by an RP (roleplay) session I did with Elwen circa 2014. If you haven't checked out her stories, you should - they're wonderful. :) I set up this scenario and threw myself into the angst full force, and she, as usual, rose to the challenge even more admirably than I had anticipated. :) Thanks, Elwen. 3 (You may interpret that as either a heart or a Frodo bottom. See in it what you will, but it's a compliment!)

For permission to reproduce any part of this fanfic, please contact Febobe.

DISCLAIMER: The characters, places, and story of The Lord of the Rings are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and consequently of the Tolkien Estate, with select rights by Tolkien Enterprises. This piece appears purely as fanfiction and is not intended to claim ownership of Tolkien's work in any way. Please e-mail me if you have concerns. Original characters, such as (but not limited to) Lossmeril, are my own work; please do not use my creations in your work. Please respect my original contributions. Furthermore, please do NOT consider any treatments or remedies within this story safe or effective for use: these are included as fictitious hobbit care, not real human medical practice, and while some can indeed be traced to actual therapeutic practices, could be dangerous. Please consult your health care professional before treating yourself or others for any condition or symptom. No slash is intended or implied in this story.

INTOXICATION

Chapter 2: Discovered

The door opened and shut quietly, and soft foot-steps approached my bed. I felt a light weight brush the bed as Elrond sat, in the easy way that elves seemed to have of sitting without causing the bed to shift. For a moment he was silent.

"Will you tell me what is the matter, tithen min? I have not seen you in more than passing since my arrival, and yet I have seen that you do not seem well."

I hesitated. What could I say? I did not wish to talk about nightmares and memories he could not relieve. I did not want to talk about the pains I had which everyone dismissed, saying there was no sign of poor healing in my body. I did not think anyone could wish to hear about my upset stomach, and I knew if I mentioned it, he would ask what I was eating. I certainly did not want to talk about my drinking or the means by which I obtained my drink. But - part of me longed for his comfort.

"I hurt," I said at last. "But everyone says I am fine. So I must be imagining it, I suppose."

"Others may not see the truth, Frodo. But that does not mean that what they do not see does not exist."

Did that mean he believed me? "Aragorn will not give me medicines for it," I said. "I have asked. He sends me a posset at night for sleep, and that is all."

"Aragorn is mindful of many things in this hour, but not of all. Are you doing anything to ease your pain?"

I debated how to answer that.

"I drink a little wine," I said at last. "Or brandy. It helps."

"How much is a little, Frodo?"

Blast! "Some. A few glasses."

"Even a few glasses will affect someone your size more than they would someone Aragorn's size, or mine. And so long as you are drinking, it may limit what medicines could be given you for pain. Alcohol can interfere with some medicines' ability to help without harming. To take both strong medicine and much wine for your size could make you more ill, or even kill you."

Would that be so terrible? I wondered, aching inside. At least then I might have an end to the pain, to the memories of shadow and fear and cold and thirst.

"Will you permit me to have a look at you?" asked Elrond gently. "If I can help you, I will, provided you will let me."

I wasn't certain what his reaction would be if he smelled the wine on my breath. Most likely he already could, being an elf. But I needed help, any way I could get it, and if he was going to turn on me, he would do so whether he learned more or not. Perhaps it would be best to let him try. Any help would be better than what I had had so far, which was none to speak of, really.

"If you want," I said, and pushed the top of the covers down a little, peeking out at him.

He smiled gently, though there was something sad in his expression. With a fluid motion, he opened his arms.

"Come here," he said. "Let me see what they have done to you, little one."

I couldn't help it. A sob caught in my throat, and I crawled out from beneath the blankets and into his welcoming arms. At once he pulled me close and held me to him.

"Ai, little one," I heard him whisper. "What pain have you hidden from the world?"

I couldn't speak. He began to undress me, easing away my waist-coat and shirt, though his touch felt so comfortable that I did not mind the air against my skin. I stiffened as I felt him trace the spot where Shelob had stung me in the back of my neck, and the whip-weals along my back and side, and the scars which still lingered from the Ring upon its chain. Last of all his fingers brushed the Morgul-wound scar upon my shoulder, and the place where he had cut into my body to dig out the fragment of blade.

I could not help it. I felt overwhelmed. I wept.

Elrond cradled me against him and simply rocked me back and forth for a while.

"You have held much inside, have you not?" he asked at last.

I could only nod a little. My chest hurt. I felt as if I might lose my breath at any moment. An ache seemed to press upon me from somewhere deep inside.

"It hurts," I gasped at last. "It hurts."

Elrond rubbed my back. "Tell me."

"Nothing helps. No one can help." And yet even as I said the words, I realised that someone was at least trying. "I can't make it stop," I ventured after a moment. "The - the nightmares. The - memories. They come back every day and every n-night, and I c-can't s-stop th-them."

"Can you tell me a little about them? As much as you can."

"Shadow," I gulped. "Fire. The Eye. Being thirsty and starving and cold. Sometimes burning hot. Sometimes I am m-marching w-with the orcs again, h-hot and th-thirsty and s-so t-tired, and I f-feel faint. Sometimes - " I realised that I did not know how much of my journey Elrond had been told, but I did not care whether my words made sense or not. They tumbled out like hobbit-children running in a game. "Sometimes I d-dream of b-being at the fire again, or I f-feel suddenly the sense of G-Gollum, tearing at my f-finger w-with his t-teeth."

Elrond continued to hold me close, rubbing my back, stroking my hair. "And no one knows of these troubles?"

"No one. I - I could not b-bear to burden Sam. And A-Aragorn is always so b-busy, and G-Gandalf too."

"And what did you do, when these pains began to trouble you, and no one to listen?"

"I drank." I was not quite sure why I was admitting this. Something about Elrond always seemed to draw the truth out of me, ever since I met him, whether I had planned to tell it or not. "I - Aragorn would not let me have very much to drink. So I - took it. It was the only way I could make it easier to bear."

Elrond was quiet for a few minutes, so much so that I began to fear I had offended him.

"Would you let me help you with your pain?" he asked at last. "If I do all I can to bring you comfort, will you permit me to do so, and to help you ease away from using drink to calm yourself?"

I hesitated. I could not bear the thought of abandoning the wine when it was the only thing to have helped at all.

"Would I have to - stop it - altogether?" I asked nervously.

"Perhaps, perhaps not." Elrond stroked my hair. "It may be that a little wine may still be permissible at times. But I think that we can help you find better ways to comfort yourself than something with so much power to harm you. And drinking will keep you from getting as much benefit from nourishment as you need. You are too thin even now, so many weeks after Aragorn brought you back."

I made a face. "Aragorn says I can only have a little plain food even now. He won't let me *eat*. If I want anything good, I have to go and find it myself."

"Does it ever trouble your stomach?"

I shrugged. "Sometimes. But so does what he sends. Sometimes the drink seems to do it. Sometimes if I don't have drink for too long I get sick too. I don't know what causes it. Sometimes I get sick just from memories. I smell that horrid stench of orc-sweat again, or the inside of the mountain, and Gollum, and then I throw up till there is nothing left in my stomach."

"Perhaps I may be able to help. Would you like to hear what I would do, with your permission?"

I could not help being curious. Elrond was at least the first person who had listened to me, really listened, since I was allowed out of bed. "What is it?"

"I think that you should allow me to look after you, just as you did when you were so ill in Rivendell last autumn. I will tell the others that you are very ill, which is truth - that it is not catching, but that you must have rest, and quiet, and visitors only when you and I agree that you are up to them. I will order food for you - we will discuss what might sound good to you, and what you might be able to eat, and we will ensure that you have an appropriate amount of suitable food and plenty of fresh water. You can always tell me what is troubling you, and perhaps there are medicines or treatments I can offer which may ease the pains in your mind and body. Some you will swallow; some I can put into soothing baths; some I can use in massaging you. Others will be different: you may talk to me, and you may share anything and everything that is in your heart, and feel safe in the telling. And perhaps we may try pleasant activities, when you feel well enough - books to look at, stories and songs to enjoy, walks in the garden. And - is there anything which troubles you most, which you would like me to help you with now?"

"The nights." Something wrenched loose inside me, and I could not help beginning to weep afresh. "The nights are so terrible. When I have nightmares, and then I wake up, alone, with only the memories - then I have to drink to dull it enough to sleep again, to forget. Please. I cannot bear being alone in the dark and terrible nights."

"Ai, little one!" Elrond cradled me close. "You should never have been left alone in the night, not since your journey. I promise that you will never be left alone to face the shadows again. Not unless you ever wish it."

Relief washed over me. Elrond was here. Whether or not he could make the pain go away, at least I would not have to face another dreadful night alone in the dark.

-to be continued-


	3. Chapter 3: Absent & Present

Title: Intoxication

Author: Frodo Baggins of Bag End (FrodoAtBagEnd/FBoBE/"Febobe")

E-mail: febobe at yahoo dot com

Characters: Frodo, Elrond, various others in cameos or secondary roles.

Rating: M for serious angst, alcohol abuse and addiction, painful and vivid PTSD and depressive symptoms as well as memories of violence and possibly some violent behaviour. Follows FrodoHealers standards - no sexual content, no slashiness, no profanity.

Warnings: Serious angst and some graphic medical detail, including vomiting, diarrhea, post-traumatic stress and depressive symptoms, and alcoholism. May be triggering for those easily squicked or for whom alcoholism is an emotionally distressing subject. No profanity or sexual content, slash or het. May include memories of violence or violent behaviour. No character death.

Summary: Following the Quest, Frodo's difficulty in adjusting drives him to excessive drinking and overindulgence. Is there hope that he can yet be helped, or is the pain of life after the Ring simply too great?

Feedback: Reviews are welcome, but (a) no flaming, please – flames will be used to warm Frodo's chilled body, and (b) I do this as a hobby, for pleasure, so before you take me to task about whether something "isn't canon" or "doesn't feel thematic" or how I left out a comma in paragraph 7 or made a typo in paragraph 3, please ask yourself whether that's really helpful. I'm not interested in being a canon purist or perfect – if I were, I wouldn't write this kind of thing; I'd just leave Frodo alone. In short – if you want to tell me you liked it, by all means, tell me, but if you just want to tell me how much better you would write Frodo, then go write your own stories with Frodo. (And if they're Frodo h/c, and suitable, by all means submit them to FrodoHealers. 😉 We could use some activity over there!)

Story Notes: Inspired in part by an RP (roleplay) session I did with Elwen circa 2014. If you haven't checked out her stories, you should - they're wonderful. :) I set up this scenario and threw myself into the angst full force, and she, as usual, rose to the challenge even more admirably than I had anticipated. :) Thanks, Elwen. 3 (You may interpret that as either a heart or a Frodo bottom. See in it what you will, but it's a compliment!)

For permission to reproduce any part of this fanfic, please contact Febobe.

DISCLAIMER: The characters, places, and story of The Lord of the Rings are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and consequently of the Tolkien Estate, with select rights by Tolkien Enterprises. This piece appears purely as fanfiction and is not intended to claim ownership of Tolkien's work in any way. Please e-mail me if you have concerns. Original characters, such as (but not limited to) Lossmeril, are my own work; please do not use my creations in your work. Please respect my original contributions. Furthermore, please do NOT consider any treatments or remedies within this story safe or effective for use: these are included as fictitious hobbit care, not real human medical practice, and while some can indeed be traced to actual therapeutic practices, could be dangerous. Please consult your health care professional before treating yourself or others for any condition or symptom. No slash is intended or implied in this story.

INTOXICATION

Chapter 3: Absent & Present

I felt hesitant at the thought of relinquishing what little comfort I had through the wine. But - Lord Elrond had given me so much comfort before that I could not help trusting him. He had promised food, and he had mentioned soothing baths, and massage, and the thought of not having to see anyone unless I wished was so utterly appealing that I would not have refused anything which might afford me that privilege. I was weary of company for the most part, though I welcomed someone I could talk to the way I could always talk to Lord Elrond.

"So tell me," Lord Elrond said, returning to my bedside from sending down a servant with orders, "what food do you wish for, and which foods do you feel best able to tolerate? I shall do my best to accommodate both as best I can, thought Aragorn is right to be careful, for you have suffered long privation. But we must get nourishment into you - and, more importantly, get it to stay where it belongs. Often when people rely overmuch on drink, their bodies do not benefit fully from what food they do eat. If you are becoming sick every time you eat and drink, you have no chance to receive the nourishment of your food, and eventually you will die, if nothing is done."

Death did not sound like such a bad prospect, compared to the pain. But I did not want to suffer the horrible death of starvation from sickness. "Fruit," I said. I hardly had to think about it, so often had I thought of food since awakening. "Fresh fruit, and juices, and vegetables. We hardly had anything like that after leaving Rivendell. Sam - Sam found some fresh herbs in Ithilien, once, but - that was a long time before the end."

"And so now you feel the want of them."

"Yes. Terribly. I love them. Especially orange-juice. Strawberries. Those lovely drinks made with fruit, fruit-ades. One has strawberries and lemon juice and sugar."

"Those are very good for you, so long as they do not disturb your stomach. They hold great nourishment."

I felt relieved to hear that. "And milk. I like milk, especially warmed. It is even better with brandy or white wine, though."

"Perhaps some of your daily dose can be taken thus, then. It is better for you to have a little wine in milk, and sweetened, than to drink it straight up."

"It dulls the memories better straight up," I explained. "But it sometimes helps in milk."

"What foods do you wish for most?"

I thought about it a moment. "Cooked carrots. Mushrooms. Green beans. Sliced tomatoes. Mashed potatoes with gravy. And I like soups, but I tire of them sometimes, when they are so plain and thin. I - "

Suddenly I saw Gollum before the pool in Henneth Annun, eating the fish he had caught. The air smelled of water, and of his odor, and the faint scent of Faramir's leather boots and jerkin -

"Frodo? Frodo, you are in Minas Tirith. It is Elrond. You are safe."

I started back to myself with a snap as I felt Elrond's hands holding mine, rubbing them gently. It had seemed so very real -

"Fish," I murmured. "I can't eat fish. Please don't let them send me any fish at all."

"As you wish, little one." Elrond searched my face anxiously. "Can you tell me what you experienced just now? Where you were?"

"At - at the pool, where Faramir and his men captured Gollum." I swallowed, feeling bile rise in my throat. "He stole a fish from the pool. To look upon it alone meant death. They - I thought they would not hurt him. They promised. But then - they caught him."

"How did you feel about that?"

"Terrible." I swallowed, feeling sweat break out upon my brow and down my back. "I was supposed to protect him. Instead, I betrayed him. Twice."

"How so?"

"I denied knowing him. I thought it best. And then - I was supposed to protect him; I said they would not harm him, and then - I could not stop them."

"How could you have stopped them, so many men, and all of them armed?"

I blinked. I had never thought of it thus before. Had we not been their prisoners as well, in truth, for all they had accepted us more as guests?

"I don't suppose I could have done very much," I said at last. "There were only two of us, and they were so big, and very strong, all of them soldiers."

"And you made your promise based upon what Faramir had told you, did you not?"

"Well - yes."

"Then the betrayal was not yours in that, Frodo." Elrond pressed my hands gently. "As for your denial - who again can blame you, in such danger yourself, and your mission endangered as well? I know it is difficult for you to believe me when I say you did nothing wrong. But I have heard your story through Faramir's words, and I cannot see anything you did wrong."

I felt feverish and sick. I wanted to believe him, but still I could not silence the sense of guilt troubling my spirit. Lord Elrond seemed to sense it.

"Lie down, Frodo. Allow me to care for you."

I lay down obediently, trembling with the chill of the sweat drying on me. Within moments Elrond was wiping my brow with a damp cloth, bathing my face and then my neck and arms and hands. It felt a little better, so I closed my eyes and let him move me as needed. He turned me and sponged down my back as well as my chest and belly, working until the sick feeling abated a little. At last I opened my eyes again.

"Do you think you could drink a little water?" asked Elrond gently.

"A little." I did feel thirsty. Almost I wished for wine instead, because wine might have dulled the painful memories. But water did sound appealing.

Elrond poured a small tumblerful, then helped me sit up and take it. I held it in both hands, sipping cautiously, and he remained close enough to help if I might need it, though I did not.

"My daughter has been concerned for you as well," said Elrond, "and she would like to come and see you, if you will permit her to visit."

I shuddered. "A lady shouldn't have to see me like this. Especially not a lady who is a queen."

Elrond smiled. "Frodo, my daughter is old as your people would reckon it. She has lived many lifetimes of hobbit-kind. Her brothers have always been very fond of discussing orc-hunting and troll-killing at the dinner-table. And she used to speak with her mother about what had happened in the dens of the orcs in the final year before Celebrian sailed. Arwen is much stronger than you know. Allow her the opportunity to try and help you."

I had never thought of it like that before. I remembered being told in Rivendell that Elrond's wife Celebrian, Arwen's mother, had suffered a poisoned wound rather like the one I had endured, and that she had never really recovered, though Elrond had healed her body. At the time I had only begun to realise that such was my fate, though I did not have the choice of sailing West to find healing. It left me feeling so dejected that I did not let myself think of it very much. I was afraid that if I did, I might become too depressed even to leave my room ... which also was not a choice I could freely make.

"If she wants to come, I will not say no," I said at last.

Elrond smiled. "I will send for her this evening."

"Won't she have a feast to attend or something like that?"

"Frodo, I do not think you realise that you are one of the most important people in the world to our family." Elrond refilled my water-tumbler, encouraging me to continue sipping. "Aragorn had conditions which I had set without which he could not have wed my daughter. Had the Ring not been destroyed, he would likely have been unable to fulfill them at all. As sad as I am to see my daughter choose this life over sailing West to be with her mother and with me, I am glad that she will help renew a line long broken - and I am glad that she is happy. And we are all aware of the sacrifices you have made for the greater good. Though it may seem that others do not care because they are so busy, it does not mean that you are not much-loved. People may not always know how to show it, but Arwen has her own ways, and I think she wishes to share them with you."

There came a light knock at the door, and Elrond went to answer it, returning with a tray which he set upon my bed.

"There is food here to help you," he said, lifting the covers of the dishes. "I have asked for sliced bananas, and toast with honey, and, though I know it is not your favourite, a bit of chicken broth. You need something soothing on your stomach, and this may prove easier on your digestion for now. For supper I will see that you have something a little more substantial, but I thought your tea-time meal should be very easy on your stomach."

"Thank you." Somehow I did not mind it so much with Elrond looking after me. If he promised a more substantial supper, then I knew I would have one. But another thought struck me: what a sight I must look, after weeping like that, and sitting in corners drinking.

"Do you think I could have my bath before Lady Arwen comes up this evening?" I asked. "I must look a fright, and I'd like to be a little more presentable."

"Of course," said Elrond. "Perhaps after supper, to help you relax. I should warn you that you may be ill again, from your earlier indulgence, but you need not fear. I will be here with you."

"Thank you." I took another sip of water, but suddenly the room before me vanished.

But I was not in Mordor, nor on Weathertop.

I was in a hobbit-hole, a large one which went on and on, in a great room - Aunt Menegilda's sitting-room, a large parlor with green and gold furniture, with crocheted doilies hung over every sofa and chair-back. Aunt Menegilda was there, and Aunt Marigold, and Uncle Saradoc, and Aunt Esmie. Aunt Menegilda was talking to me as I stood before her, and Aunt Esmie and Uncle Saradoc each had a hand on one of my shoulders. I felt like a prisoner. I wondered what I had done wrong.

My stomach suddenly sunk and my throat went tight. Where were Mamma and Papa?

And then I heard Aunt Menegilda say, "both drowned last night ... "

Tears begin to well in my eyes, and my breath came faster and faster.

"Frodo! Frodo, you are in Minas Tirith. I am here. You are safe. Tell me what you see."

I gasped. I could not catch my breath. Who was talking to me? I recognised the voice, though it was not Bilbo's, nor Sam's - wait, it - it was Elrond. I blinked, and my vision seemed to clear, and I could see that I was sitting on my bed in my room in Minas Tirith, and Elrond was rubbing my hands gently between his, looking concerned.

"I - I was - at Brandy Hall," I managed at last, between breaths. "My - m-my parents - th-they - it was wh-when - they - drowned."

Elrond nodded. "Does the memory often trouble you?"

I shuddered. "More than I wish." I had not really thought of it. In Mordor, there had been the Ring, blocking out all other memories. And after, I had been too fragile to think of it for a while. But now that I was a little stronger, memories had begun to assail me more and more, though this was the first time I could recall being pulled so deeply into such an old memory.

"Tell me," said Elrond, once I had caught my breath, and drunk some water at his urging, and eaten a bit more banana, "what do you remember of that time? How you managed? I understand that Bilbo did not adopt you for ten years after it happened. What was life like in the meantime?"

"Hard." The word seemed to pop out even before I could think. Pain welled up in my throat. "I had my parents before. Overnight, I became nobody's son. Underfoot. Forgotten. A burden. They said they cared, but sometimes they forgot me, and the only time I got any notice was when they scolded me."

"Do you think that had anything to do with your becoming - one of the worst young rascals in Buckland, I believe Bilbo said?"

I felt my cheeks flush. "I - never really thought about it."

"Sometimes when children cannot get any attention any other way, they behave in ways which get their elders' attention, simply out of longing to be noticed."

"Even when I was ill people barely noticed me. Once I went with Bilbo to Bag End when I was getting over measles. I wished Bilbo would let me live with him, I loved it so. But he did not ask me to come for good till I was several years older." I sniffled.

"Did you ever misbehave when you were with Bilbo?"

"Actually - no, not really." The answer surprised me. I had not really thought about that either. "I mean, now and then I did something a bit reckless, and ended up somewhere I oughtn't have been. But really, I never did anything *bad*. I didn't ever steal anything when I was at Bag End. Not mushrooms. Not anything."

"So it was only when you felt 'underfoot' that you misbehaved."

"I suppose so." I dabbed at my nose with a pocket-handkerchief. "I - with - Bilbo, I never needed to misbehave. If I was hungry, no one shooed me out of the kitchen and told me they couldn't give food to one child when there were thirty in Brandy Hall. Bilbo always let me have the run of the house. If I was hungry, all I had to do was visit the pantry. There was always plenty of food there. Fresh fruit, bread and cheese, muffins Bilbo baked, seed-cakes, pickles, jam. And he never got angry, no matter what I took; he only asked me to tell him what we were out of if I saw, but even if I forgot, he wasn't angry. I – there, I forgot what it was to be hungry, because I could always eat when I wished."

"Were you often hungry at Brandy Hall?"

That, too, I had almost forgotten, but it all felt so real to think of it now. "Aren't elven children ravenous too? Hobbit-children stay hungry most of the time. Seven meals a day isn't enough. But in a place as big as Brandy Hall, it's hard to feed every mouth seven times a day and still have snacks for thirty or more. My grandfather kept quite a table, but - when my parents were alive, they would always take me to the market, and buy fruit for our rooms, and sometimes cookies or cakes or muffins for treats."

"So you did not feel as deprived when you had them to look out for you."

"No. Not in anything." I thought of my mother's smell, how she always smelled of lavender, and sometimes cinnamon and sugar and nutmeg if she had been baking, as she now and then liked to. I thought of my father's pipe, the warm scent of his favourite pipe-weed, and how angry I had been when I found out they had lost his pipe-collection - stolen, I always thought, by one of my relations. But I had been a child, and unable to do anything about it. "I never felt alone till they died," I said at last, "even though I had no brothers or sisters. I had cousins to play with, but afterward they treated me differently, and sometimes they liked to remind me that I had no parents, and they had."

"That must have felt very painful."

"It did." I poked savagely at my dish of banana. "Bilbo never let people talk to me like that. Anyone who came to Bag End was required to respect me the way they respected Bilbo. He treated me like - like - "

"Like you were his son?"

"Yes." Now that I thought of it, he had. I had always called him uncle, though we were really cousins, and never father. Bilbo would not have had me call him that. 'You remember your parents,' he used to say, 'so it does not make sense for you to call me Father. But Uncle works nicely, don't you think? Drogo was like my little brother, so really, I feel like your uncle.'

"How did you feel about your parents dying?" asked Elrond. "Other than underfoot, and alone."

"Abandoned." I thought about it for a moment, trying to dig through the mess time had made of what had never been orderly feelings from the start. "Sometimes I felt - angry. Angry that they weren't more careful. Angry that they were even out in a boat in the first place, not being able to swim. Angry that they hadn't made some sort of arrangement for me other than staying with everyone in Brandy Hall. They left me money, of course, but - I had no say in how to spend it, so I had to do without until - until Bilbo took me in, unless it was something my aunts thought I needed, like clothes."

"Do you ever feel angry about it now?"

The question surprised me, but my answer surprised me more. "Yes! Sometimes I wish that they had never died, and that Bilbo hadn't raised me - I mean, I love Bilbo, honestly, I do. But - that was how I came by the Ring, you know, and - otherwise - "

"Otherwise you might have never had to carry it?"

"Yes. I might still have been in the Shire, oblivious to - all - this." I swallowed, my throat tightening up again. The ache inside me grew stronger, and I knew only one thing to help it. "Please - may I have some wine?"

Elrond shook his head, though his expression did not seem unkind. "It would be better for you to continue to drink water, and talk a little more if you can. In a little while, I shall give you some wine."

I sighed. I wanted, needed, it now. "Please. Please, it is the only thing which eases the pain."

"Are you in pain now?"

"Yes!" Could he not see it? I felt as if everything in me ached, and I was beginning to feel cross.

"Tell me what hurts, no matter how little or how much of you it may be. And then I would like you to lie back down." He moved the tray aside, looking at me expectantly, and I had the distinct feeling that he was not planning to budge in the matter of the wine.

"Everything."

"Everything? Or something in particular? Is it inside or out?"

"Both." I thought about it for a moment. "Inside, I ache, thinking about my parents, and about Bilbo," I said. "And my chest feels tight. It hurts too."

"Let us see whether I can bring you a little ease. If you will lie back down, I will do what I can for you."

Slowly I began to undress, fumbling a little with my shirt-buttons, for my hands trembled. What I needed was more wine, but I had promised to let him try to help me, and going about it his way rather than mine, which had not helped me enough to take away my pain when the strong drink wore off, was part of the bargain. But Elrond took over for me, and finished undressing me. I I lay down on my stomach, and a moment later, he laid a soft blanket over me, folding it down to expose my back.

"There are things I can do," he explained, as I heard him moving about and doing something, probably with his herbal to judge from the sound, "which can help to bring back memory. I try to evoke only pleasant memories, but there is always a risk of triggering painful ones as well. Are you willing to let me try and bring back some memories to comfort you?"

"Yes." I knew elves had ways not common among men or hobbits, though I had not had much opportunity to do anything other than study maps and discuss travel plans when I had been in Rivendell. Right now, the thought of more memories felt almost too painful to bear. But it could not be any worse than the pain which drove me back to the bottle time and time again, surely, and so I thought I could at least let Elrond try.

A few moments passed, and then I smelled a hint of lavender.

My breath caught.

*Mamma.*

I closed my eyes, and it seemed almost as if Mamma was *there*, in the room, and it seemed her hands that stroked my back, though in my head I knew it must be Elrond, for his hands were larger and stronger. But it felt good, whomever was touching me, and so I kept my eyes closed, resting.

That was the last thing I remembered, before I slipped into sleep: the aroma of lavender, and someone stroking my back with tender, firm movements.

-to be continued-


	4. Chapter 4: Not At All Well

Title: Intoxication

Author: Frodo Baggins of Bag End (FrodoAtBagEnd/FBoBE/"Febobe")

E-mail: febobe at yahoo dot com

Characters: Frodo, Elrond, various others in cameos or secondary roles.

Rating: M for serious angst, alcohol abuse and addiction, painful and vivid PTSD and depressive symptoms as well as memories of violence and possibly some violent behaviour. Follows FrodoHealers standards - no sexual content, no slashiness, no profanity.

Warnings: Serious angst and some graphic medical detail, including vomiting, diarrhea, post-traumatic stress and depressive symptoms, and alcoholism. May be triggering for those easily squicked or for whom alcoholism is an emotionally distressing subject. No profanity or sexual content, slash or het. May include memories of violence or violent behaviour. No character death.

Summary: Following the Quest, Frodo's difficulty in adjusting drives him to excessive drinking and overindulgence. Is there hope that he can yet be helped, or is the pain of life after the Ring simply too great?

Feedback: Reviews are welcome, but (a) no flaming, please – flames will be used to warm Frodo's chilled body, and (b) I do this as a hobby, for pleasure, so before you take me to task about whether something "isn't canon" or "doesn't feel thematic" or how I left out a comma in paragraph 7 or made a typo in paragraph 3, please ask yourself whether that's really helpful. I'm not interested in being a canon purist or perfect – if I were, I wouldn't write this kind of thing; I'd just leave Frodo alone. In short – if you want to tell me you liked it, by all means, tell me, but if you just want to tell me how much better you would write Frodo, then go write your own stories with Frodo. (And if they're Frodo h/c, and suitable, by all means submit them to FrodoHealers. 😉 We could use some activity over there!)

Story Notes: Inspired in part by an RP (roleplay) session I did with Elwen circa 2014. If you haven't checked out her stories, you should - they're wonderful. :) I set up this scenario and threw myself into the angst full force, and she, as usual, rose to the challenge even more admirably than I had anticipated. :) Thanks, Elwen. 3 (You may interpret that as either a heart or a Frodo bottom. See in it what you will, but it's a compliment!)

For permission to reproduce any part of this fanfic, please contact Febobe.

DISCLAIMER: The characters, places, and story of The Lord of the Rings are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and consequently of the Tolkien Estate, with select rights by Tolkien Enterprises. This piece appears purely as fanfiction and is not intended to claim ownership of Tolkien's work in any way. Please e-mail me if you have concerns. Original characters, such as (but not limited to) Lossmeril, are my own work; please do not use my creations in your work. Please respect my original contributions. Furthermore, please do NOT consider any treatments or remedies within this story safe or effective for use: these are included as fictitious hobbit care, not real human medical practice, and while some can indeed be traced to actual therapeutic practices, could be dangerous. Please consult your health care professional before treating yourself or others for any condition or symptom. No slash is intended or implied in this story.

INTOXICATION

Chapter 4: Not At All Well

Vaguely I became aware of lying in bed, comfortably positioned on my right side, the covers tucked over me warmly. The room was dimly lit, though a fire crackled pleasantly in the hearth.

But something was wrong.

Very wrong.

I felt sick, and my stomach lurched uneasily. I tried to sit up, though to my relief I felt Lord Elrond's arms around me, pulling me close as he held a basin beneath my chin. Violently I retched, vomiting over and over again, feeling the sweat rolling down my face and soaking the back of my night-shirt. I felt an alarming rush of wetness beneath me and realised with horror that I had soiled my bed. But I had no time to apologise, for I had to throw up again, and then again.

At last the fit passed, leaving me spent. This time, though, I was not alone, at least. Elrond held me close, stroking my hair.

"Let me get you cleaned up," he said softly. "I need to lay you down, though only for a moment."

"I didn't mean to make a mess," I murmured. "I am sorry."

"You could not help it. I will bring water for you to rinse your mouth, and we will get you out of that gown and change your bed. Perhaps this might be a good time for that bath, if you think you can bear sitting in a tub. I will fold a towel behind you so you can rest, and I will bathe you."

A bath certainly sounded like a good idea to me, though I felt too weak to move. I let Lord Elrond lay me on my side, turned so I was not lying in the mess I had made. I could hear him moving about the room. It was embarrassing to have been caught in such a situation - usually I managed to tend to my own needs, and on the rare occasions when I soiled my clothes I had always rinsed them out thoroughly before turning them over to servants for laundry. But this time I felt worse than ever. It was a relief when Lord Elrond returned and eased me out of my gown, wiping my bottom with a warm, damp cloth and patting me dry with a towel. He then folded the towel on the clean side of the bed and moved me so that I rested with my backside upon it, as if it were a cushion. After washing his hands, he brought back a clean basin and a tumbler of water, which he touched to my lips, holding out the basin for me with his other hand.

"Rinse your mouth, little one. Spit into the basin."

I obeyed. It felt better to have that awful taste out of my mouth somewhat, though I was even more relieved when Lord Elrond set aside the tumbler and basin and offered me something small from his pocket.

"Would you like to suck on a little candied ginger? Do not eat it, only hold it in your mouth. It may give you a little ease."

I nodded and held out my hand, taking the tidbit and slipping it onto my tongue. He smiled and covered me with a blanket, then began working on the side of the bed I had soiled. I was grateful I had managed to sneak some towels beneath the bedding before, for fear of this event. It always made my bed rather lumpy, but I had worried about such things happening, and now I realised how right I had been.

"My sons will arrive soon," said Lord Elrond, "and they will help with changing your bed. I will prepare your bath now, but while you have it, we should talk."

My stomach lurched again, though this time nothing seemed inclined to come out either end. "Talk?"

"Yes." Lord Elrond met my eyes with a sympathetic gaze. "I understand your need for food. It is real. Your body had been so long deprived that even now it cries out for nourishment, though you are being fed. But your body and mind are not to be trusted to act in your best interest. I am concerned that if you continue to try and sneak food and drink, you might do yourself a real injury - one which even I cannot heal. It could cost you your life."

"I'm fine. Really." I did not want to be told what I could and could not eat. I had consented to let him help me, but part of me bristled at the thought of being restricted thus.

"It seemed to me that you were not fine a few minutes ago. You were very ill, and so long as you are experiencing vomiting and diarrhea, your body cannot heal properly. Allow me to show you something."

I looked at him curiously, but in answer he only came to my side of the bed, gathered me in his arms, and carried me to the wall where a large mirror hung. I was prone to avoiding mirrors these days, having discovered early on that I looked rather poorly despite Aragorn's care. But it quickly became clear to me that Elrond did not wish me to avoid the mirror this time.

"Look in," he said, when we drew close.

Against my fearful judgment, I looked.

What I saw made my mouth open in an O of astonishment.

When I first had seen myself after getting out of bed, I had not looked at all well. I had seemed pale and sallow, like some sickly invalid close to death, and far too thin, with my cheekbones and nose and chin too sharp in my face. My clothes had seemed well fitted, for Aragorn had had them made especially for me as I was, and not as I had been. But now I looked even thinner and paler, with a sickly greyish-yellow cast to my skin that looked even worse than before. My cheeks were flushed, and sweat glistened on my face and body. My hair lay limp and lifeless against my face, and my eyes looked out hollowly from a starved-looking face which seemed all sharp angles.

"That," said Lord Elrond, still holding me close against him, "is an accurate reflection of how terribly ill you are. Without proper care, you will surely die, and while I know that death may seem an end to pain now, it would not be a very pleasant way to pass on. I am happy to care for you. It is an honour. But I cannot care for you if you will not *let* me care for you. I promised you a supper that would be a little more substantial, but after seeing you this ill, I think your difficulties may be more severe even than I discerned. I will have something brought for you, but you need to *talk* to me, and tell me more of what has been going on. You admitted to drinking rather a great deal for anyone, but especially for one your size." He turned and carried me to the bath-room attached to my bed-chamber, where he pulled up a stool beside the tub and sat with me on his lap, the towel beneath me. With one free hand he reached to turn on the running-water taps, testing the water with his fingers as he spoke. "You need to tell me how much you have been eating, and what, and how often. I believe there is more to this story than you have shared. I am not angry with you - it is natural to long for food, and plenty of it, after such privation - but there are good reasons why Aragorn has been loath to give you more, and if you have been eating much more, I need to hear about it."

I hesitated. It had been hard enough to admit the drinking, but somehow I felt greedy and foolish to admit the full extent of my eating. But I knew that Lord Elrond had a way of getting the truth out of me, and if I did not tell it now, he would find some way to coax it from me before the week was out. And if he was right, I had better tell him now, so he could help me.

A noise in my room startled me, and my heart pounded in my chest. Lord Elrond rubbed my back gently.

"It is only the twins," he said. "They have come to change your bed, and remove the soiled linens. And they will bring your supper shortly."

I had forgotten that elves had some strange way of talking without ever using words, or even being in the same room, though I had often noticed it when I had been in Rivendell, when Elrond would sometimes call for Arwen or Lossmeril to bring broth or bandages or some special treat for me.

"I have been eating whatever I could get," I said at last, as he eased me into the tub and positioned a folded towel behind my head and shoulders. "Aragorn sends me - well, I suppose he's told you what he sends, and I try to eat that, and it is good, I suppose. But I - I have eaten little fruit tarts, mashed potatoes with gravy and mushrooms - usually cold, roast beef - usually cold too, sometimes rich dessert dishes or things with cheese. Whatever I can find. And of course - the wine, or now and then brandy. Mostly I eat what Aragorn sends, but then two or three times a day I raid the kitchens. When they aren't looking."

"When you eat only Aragorn's food, and nothing else, does your stomach get upset?"

I thought about it for a moment. It had been a few weeks since I had eaten only Aragorn's food and nothing else. "Sometimes," I said at last. "But not so often. And when I did get sick and admit it, he would take me back a few steps on that diet and then I would get better. Which is why I haven't told him I'm that sort of ill now. I miss real food. And he won't even let me have real food."

One of the twins must have handed in Elrond's herbal, for he brought it over to the little dressing-table, and opened it, and took out a vial of oil, drizzling a few small drops into the water and swirling it around. The smell was comforting - peppermint - and it seemed to help me relax a little.

"Does not having the food you wish for make you feel uneasy?" asked Elrond.

"Yes. Very."

"What could we do to help you feel safe with regard to food? I would be happy to let you have as much as you want whenever you want, but it will only make you more ill, and I believe Aragorn shares my concerns. The food is too much for your stomach to bear, and so it makes your stomach upset, and then you lose what little nourishment you have taken. And then you feel worse, and more deprived, so you eat more food which is too rich for you, and again you become ill, and lose that nourishment, and feel worse. It is a dangerous cycle to be trapped in, and it could do you great harm, provided it did not kill you in the end. So we must break that cycle."

I thought about it as he took up a wash-cloth and some peppermint-scented soap and began to bathe me with gentle hands. "I want to have food more often," I said at last, "even if it means having less at a time. I would rather have a little something every hour than once every two or four hours. Even if it is only milk, or juice, it makes me feel better to know that there is food to have."

"I think we could manage that quite easily." Elrond finished with my face and neck and began to bathe my shoulders, taking special care with the left one. "I would like to do what Aragorn does, and restart you on the refeeding diet he has used. I realise that you would rather have creamy soups than sugared water, but I think that sugared water, and sweet milk, and perhaps sweetened fruit juices, will serve you much better than richer foods right now. And if you will trust me, perhaps we can build you up to more substantial food. But we must not let you have too much food or wine for now."

"When will I be better?" I felt almost afraid to ask the question. I was afraid I already knew the answer.

Elrond soaped the washcloth and bathed my chest with it. "I cannot say, tithen min. If you do not allow me to guide your diet and help you, then you will never be able to improve. But even if you do, I cannot promise how quickly you will recover, nor whether you will ever recover at all. The only thing I can promise with certainty is that I will make sure you have the best of care."

I had been afraid of that. Still, he did promise I would be taken care of, and that was something. Had he not done his best for me before, when I had arrived in Rivendell so ill that I had nearly died, or worse? Bilbo had said that Elrond had not left my side till I was sleeping well and my fever had begun to fall, and then he had only been willing to leave me with Gandalf watching over me. I had to trust that he would do all he could for me.

"I understand," I said as he rinsed my chest. "I might not get better."

"That is correct. But what I can also promise is that there are means by which I might be able to help you *feel* better, in mind and in body. I cannot promise a cure, but I can bring you ease which does not require either wine or rich food. I can teach you how to comfort yourself - and so long as you and I are in the same place, I am willing to comfort you as best as I can."

"Oh," I said glumly. I did not wish to think about the day when we would no longer be in the same place. I would have to return home, and he would sail West.

"Would you share what troubles you, little one?"

I started. How did Elrond always seem to understand what I was thinking? Could he read my mind too?

"I was only thinking that soon I will have to return home," I said.

"Do you wish to return home?"

The question shocked me. I had never thought of not returning home. But I had never quite been able to imagine my homecoming either. My home was a part of my past, and seemed as real as the idea of flying to me now. More than once I had envied Bilbo his peaceful life in Rivendell.

"I don't know," I said. "I don't know what I want. I only know how dreadful I feel."

"Perhaps when you are feeling better you might think about where you wish to go. No one would think of you leaving here any time soon - you are far too ill to travel, and it will be a long time before you are well enough to make even short journeys. What you need now is to be kept warm and quiet in bed, and to have suitable nourishment and nursing, and when things are a little better, you may consider whether you would like to remain here, in the care of my daughter and foster-son, or whether you wish to return to the Shire with your companions, or whether you would like to go with us as far as Imladris, and stay there with my household."

I could hardly believe it. Me, live in Rivendell, like Bilbo? "Do you really mean I could stay with you?" I asked hopefully. "I think I should like that very much."

"Of course. The choice will be yours. And you shall have plenty of time to think through your decision."

That made me feel better. Of course, it did not answer the matter of what would become of me when Lord Elrond sailed West. But I felt too spent to think of that at the moment. It felt easier to lean back and let Lord Elrond continue bathing me.

"Your supper should arrive by the time we have you back in bed," said Lord Elrond.

I could not resist what must have been a rather wan smile. "What, water and crushed ice?"

"A little better. I have asked for sugared water. They are preparing skimmed chicken broth for later, and closer to bedtime you may have a little rice with sugar. Sometimes those things will settle a troubled stomach."

"It seems like so little." Still, he was right. I had been so awfully sick. Part of me felt panicky at the thought of doing without food, real food, again, but I tried to remind myself that he was only trying to help. He would not allow me to starve. And from the look of it, I was starving already. How much worse could this be?

"I know, tithen min, and I am sorry. But if you fare well, perhaps soon we can give you a little fruit-juice with sugar and crushed ice. Would that taste good?"

I nodded eagerly. That did sound good. Perhaps I could bear it a little while after all. But suddenly I felt panicky. Wine! Lord Elrond had not mentioned wine. Would he give me any? I had not been in the habit of going very long without any, and I knew from the occasions when I had had to do so that it did not sit well with my stomach either.

"May I have some wine, though, this evening?" I asked nervously. "I haven't had any in hours."

Elrond looked me, his eyes filled with pity, which made me feel horribly embarrassed. "It may be hard on your stomach," he said, "but it may also be hard on your body to go without. I must weigh a choice of evils: whether to wean you down slowly, as I had planned, or whether to deprive you of it to avoid further compromising your recovery." He sighed. "But it is not unlike the decision I made for you when it looked as if you would not survive the operation to remove the fragment of blade. Then, it would have been the lesser evil to risk your life to get it out. Now, I deem it the lesser evil to give you a few sips and try to manage your digestion more effectively with diet. But please understand that it will be only a very small amount, and we will decrease it every day or two."

"I understand." As nervous as I felt about having so much less wine than I had grown accustomed to, it was better than having none. I only hoped I could manage.

But suddenly the room went black.

-to be continued-


End file.
